


In Between the Raindrops

by InkStainsOnMyHands



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Armchair Therapy, Childhood Trauma, Domestic Fluff, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Medication, Same-Sex Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 06:29:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20737730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkStainsOnMyHands/pseuds/InkStainsOnMyHands
Summary: “My arm fucking hurts. It hurts because when I was a kid, a grown-ass man broke it while trying to fucking murder me. So, every time it fucking rains, the pins holding my goddamn arm together make my bones ache. But living with that is better than the alternative.” Eddie laughs, and it’s dry and bitter. “How fucked up is that?”“It’s really fucked up,” Richie croaks; every word hurts as if it were a physical blow to his sternum. He finds it difficult to breathe. Regardless, he wants nothing more than for Eddie to have this catharsis.A Fix-It of Sorts...





	In Between the Raindrops

**Author's Note:**

> This fic sort of fell off the Reddie tag on [tumblr](https://faequill.tumblr.com/post/187882748822/i-felt-bad-about-this-non-fix-it-i-wrote-so-here) so I decided to cross post it here.

The stillness in the car is shattered by several tiny, incessant shrieks.

_ Beep-beep, beep-beep… _

In his peripheral, Richie sees Eddie tap on his smartwatch, silencing its shrills. Once again, the only sounds that echo between them are the pitter-patters of fat raindrops splattering against the windshield. 

After a few heartbeats, Richie hears the soft purr of a zipper opening, followed by the tell-tale clatters of pill bottles colliding. There is a sudden pop before a distinct and familiar rattling reaches Richie’s ears. 

“Here you go, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs. 

Richie glances down to where Eddie is holding out a small white pill between his fingers. 

Richie’s eyes flit back to the soaked highway ahead of them. “Lexapro o’clock already? How long have we been driving?” He chuckles as he blindly takes his medicine from his husband. “Y’know this could probably wait until we’re in town.” 

_ Snap-snap-snap…crunch. _

“Don’t want you to forget a dose,” Eddie counters.

Richie throws back his antidepressant and holds out his hand for the bottle of water Eddie had opened. Once the cool plastic is in his grasp, he takes a swig from the container, swallowing down his pill. 

As soon as his throat clears, Richie remarks with a fond smile, “My Eddie spaghetti taking such good care of me.” He places his half-used bottle in a cup holder, freeing his fingers to curl into the short strands of Eddie’s hair. 

Eddie says nothing. With another glance, Richie finds a startling lack of eye-rolling, or heavy sighing, or pursing lips. Instead, Eddie rubs his right wrist as he stares out the passenger window. 

_ Uh oh _. 

“You alright there, sugarbutt?” Richie ventures. 

“Yeah, why?” Eddie mutters, toneless. The response sounds more automatic than thoughtful. 

Richie swallows the sudden lump forming in his throat. “Because that’s the tenth time you’ve rubbed your arm in the last five minutes.” 

“Just cold, 'm fine.” 

The blasting heater is already causing Richie to sweat beneath his collar. Regardless, he presses the button to activate Eddie’s seat warmer. If Eddie won’t speak the truth, maybe Richie can smoke it out. 

For several minutes, an awkward, stifling silence settles between them as Eddie’s seat works its magic. Eddie finally breaks it with an abrupt growl. “Actually, no. You know what? I’m not fine,” he hisses. 

_ That’s it. Let it out, honey. _

“My arm fucking hurts. It hurts because when I was a kid, a grown-ass man broke it while trying to fucking murder me. So, every time it fucking rains, the pins holding my goddamn arm together make my bones ache. But living with that is better than the alternative.” Eddie laughs, and it’s dry and bitter. “How fucked up is that?” 

“It’s really fucked up,” Richie croaks; every word hurts as if it were a physical blow to his sternum. He finds it difficult to breathe. Regardless, he wants nothing more than for Eddie to have this catharsis. 

“And, it's also fucked up that we have to drive eight fucking hours to give victim statements, _ again _ , to a parole board, because the state, in its infinite wisdom, decided to try to _ compassionately _ release that mother fucker. Which, by the way, is better than what any of his victims ever got! None of them got to die in a nice cozy bed, all warm and comfortable in hospice care. Why should he?” Eddie shrieks, his voice rising in pitch as he continues. 

Richie’s left foot bounces. “Preaching to the choir, cutie patoots.” 

Eddie cuts the air with his raised hand. “That piece of shit should be made to literally rot from cancer in his prison cell. He should spend the rest of his days in unbearable pain.” 

“Absolutely,” Richie agrees with barely concealed conviction. 

“_ That _ would be fair, Richie,” Eddie sighs out. “But this? This isn’t fair. That fucker dressed up as a clown to lure and hurt children, and he - what? - gets away with it? He gets away with fucking with us? He gets away with hurting us? He gets away with putting so much fear into us we couldn’t even think of having kids? The state is telling me that not only did he get to steal our fucking childhoods and our future families, but he’s just free to go? That’s _ not _fair.”

A weariness settles into Richie’s bones. “I know, babe.” 

“I mean, for God’s sake, Bill can’t even process the trauma without turning Pennywise into that monster thing in his book. And they want to let that bastard out of _ jail _?”

_ Wait, what? _ Richie’s eyebrow rises. “Whoa, whoa, back up, what? I thought Bill’s thing was some sort of true crime novel!” 

“Richie,” Eddie gasps. “Oh my God. You didn’t read it? You signed the release! We’re meeting up with him for dinner in less than an hour!” 

Richie winces. His grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Give me a fucking break! The manuscript was like 15 billion pages long, and he wanted the release signed in, like, a month. What was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. Read it?” Eddie deadpans. 

A long breath escapes through Richie’s nose as panic fills the churning pit of his stomach. “Fuck, just give me a synopsis really quick so I don’t look like an asshole.” 

For the next twenty minutes, Eddie explains the plot of Bill’s novel with some flourish, preening with obvious pride for one of his best friends. Throughout the near-lecture, Eddie goes into several tangents about the poetic nature of the book. Richie, meanwhile, exclaims a series of “What?”s and “Really?”s in disbelief at the outlandish plot points. But it’s the “symbolic” inclusion of Eddie’s ex-girlfriend and Eddie’s death that causes Richie to click his jaw. 

Richie knows voicing his opinions would only result in an unnecessary argument. Instead, he huffs beneath his breath, “And Stan just went with all of this?”

“Well, it makes him more of a tragic hero, don’t you think?” 

Richie snorts. “Yeah, sure.” 

Eddie hums in response. He leans to his left side and rests his cheek against the meat of Richie’s upper arm. His hands wrap around the crook of Richie’s elbow as if it were a treasured stuffed animal. “Thanks,” he whispers. 

“For what, baby doll?” Richie asks, voice small. 

“Taking care of me. Taking care of all of us. Even when you have your own shit going on,” Eddie whispers. 

“No, no, Eddie, I really don’t,” Richie denies with his whole heart. “Out of all of us, I was affected the least.” 

“Baby, you know that’s not true. You heard and saw stuff no kid, or anyone should have to.” 

_ And smelled _, Richie’s mind supplies rather unhelpfully . The smell of pennies and gasoline always brings him back to that horrid summer of 1989. Richie’s hands tremble. 

Akin to an affectionate cat, Eddie rubs the side of his face against Richie. “I heard you crying the other night in the bathroom. I didn’t say anything, because I wasn’t sure if you were ready to talk. But, you know can talk to me about anything, right?” 

Richie’s mouth slowly stretches into a toothy grin. “Actually, there is something I want to talk about.” 

Eddie raises his head. “What?” 

Richie glances at Eddie. “You think _ Dateline _ will be there covering the story?” 

“Richie -” Eddie warns with a low rumble. 

“Because it would be so rad to meet Keith Morrison.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos fuel me!


End file.
